ITT: We post our poetry, and rate each other. Give some criticism

It's a bit much, but lots of fun to write. Obviously no attempt at real form.

Sparse pairs of parsed pears, raring's scarce but scars are rare. Airs in arrears led to something queer, such that queries cleared thanks to leery ears. No fear, for there's no feelings here, halted hurt had helped my heart lurch, until I built a church from the bones of my work.

And my heart, who'd stopped with that jerk, lept as if shook, by the words of the book. Reminded, like a challenged rook, to check for my mate; her gentle elate.

Past tension past into past tense, at the mention of what would happen hence. Hear I'd heard an edict deserved, and I was served the truth without nerve: Never be stirred by needless needles, naught for what we aught to be taught. Then teach these thoughts for those who seek and have sought, for what you've wreaked will be wrought, but what was reached can't be bought.

A spot will be earned for lessons learned and hearts turned. Those spurned will forgive your sojourn. So forgive your own burns, for you must be first. Let the past be the worst, just your happiness rehearsed. And when you are first you'll let yourself be last, as you must wait until all have past the impasse. One cannot be passive if they desire passion. Rationally, rationality is fractionally a fallacy.

Ur that dude, I'm the guy that got you to write ghazals, here's the closest to a good Ghazal I have.

>not the other user btw

-ly rhymes (like -ations or -ings) are weak, it'd be better to forgo rhyme altogether on 2 & 4 than rhyme that weakly. It looks like struggle.

Last line needs fewer commas at least.

>Anxious air awaits rains release
>As old men's bones ache patiently.
>Troubled hearts begin to make peace;
>Tension lets go, and, it pours, finally.

Punctuation is not overrated--it can be very useful in slight variations of how the poem is read to help pacing. Stay in tense. You began in present, stay in present or else declare a return to the past, or signify the return in some way. If you don't follow real form, then you have a hood intuition for meter and pacing. You only had one syllable over 8 in the first line. Notice how the removal of an not only helped keep the present tense, but aided in the flow of a now balanced stanza.
Keep working on it. Not a bad little thought.

I really like this poem, but shouldn't the last couplet be two sentences? The rhythm wouldn't really change, and it feels like a run-on.

Crow's feet are ingrained on my face
And I'm living too late
Try to wash the black off my face, but it's ingrained
And I'm living too late

Sleepless, in-control spleen
Agreed ace family
Must have stump tripod in the genes
I'm immune to things
In my dreams

I saw through the trees
O'er the poison river locks
Talk treacherous would beat
But still my heart it is rock

Finally going through old parasite gate
But there's a 24-hour clock watch
And I'm living too late
Think

Sometimes life is like a new bar
Plastic seats, beer below par
Food with no taste, music grates
I'm living too late

Once talking was my favourite while
But now I know a conversation's end
Before it's done
Maybe I'm living too long

The daylight
I see trouble on the streets
Fearing catastrophe to meet
Walk down the devil's boulevard
But still my heart is hard

They say them cellars were evil black
But I know they're wrong
Think it's one been
Living Too Long

The first half has a lot of nice concrete imagery. The second half feels a bit fluffier. The seventh stanza seems a bit cliche. I liked the refrain, but I'm not sure about the change midway through. It doesn't feel organic.

>it feels like a run-on
yeah-- does that not change the emotive content for you? maybe I'm being an idiosynchronizer.

Here's a form I'm working on myself.

>Crow's feet are ingrained on my face
This is a bit obnoxious about establishing the wordplay, 'ingrained' does it

>O'er the poison river locks

>They say them cellars were evil black

these different voices feel strange in a way that maybe you meant to explore, but don't feel explored thoroughly. Mostly due to the otherwise 'normal' cadence of much of the work. Explore these two voices more wholeheartedly and the poem will be better.

whoops, forgot the piece

...

ranger esprit
ghost stalk
follow close
danger respite

breathe rifling trees
like how he combed his hair
he took her life
she wanted to share

specter vision
sees through mind
eyes like lead
block sight

lies told
high sold dreams
screams rend luxury seams
hands bleed
grab at me
no sense in fighting

it's just the patriarchy

The imagery in the first half is very good, while the last half feels a bit too long. Most sonnets have a turning point after 8 lines, so maybe you could cut the last part somewhat.

You watch me - then you watch me
So slow the brightness of your gaze -
it burns a hole into my crown
But once headless I can rest -
And so I Thank you now?

Glorious Creep
How can good birth evil
If all there ever was
Was made by one
Why did it di-
vide

Glorious book
Could you tell me why
Atom would split
And so I'm alive

Born to be soaked
Later to drown in it
Or whatever punishment you see fit
Glorious Creep

If given the choice
I'd rather sleep than decide
Because my life was not formed by some unholy divide - unrehearsed
But a coming together of diverse
this is the first poem I've ever written, i wrote it 5 mins ago when i saw this thread pls kill me :^)

>Most sonnets have a turning point after 8 lines
Are you saying to add a volta? I don't really like voltas. They're usually really on the nose and garish.

A volta isn't necessarily
>BUT she was really pretty all along
a sonnet without a volta isn't a sonnet, and the 'volta' as a technique is as varied in application and effect as rhythm is (and is around the same level of importantance). Without a turn, all you have is a poetic rant.

Right, there is technically a volta at the break, where it shifts settings. I was thinking more the obnoxious couplets.

Anybody a fan of slavish imitation?

the volta I see is at 'Dead Grandmother' (a deep tonal shift followed by the actual address in your sonnet)

the last line needs to be cut btw, especially if you dislike Shakespearean couplets.

Yeah, I felt like the last line was weak too when I was reading it today. It's definitely going to get cut.

Your rhyme seems too strict to be an imitation of her overall. Any particular poem you're looking at?

None in particular. "My nosegays are for Captives -" and "I dwell in Possibility –" are the two I'm most reminded of when I read it though. Something about the rhythm.

This is bad poetry.

thank you for the critique this will definitely help me improve :)

Great poem man, I'm the other ghazal dude. Very precise and smooth. I enjoyed it.

Thanks bud!
>tfw I didn't know there were two

Maybe
if I had eyes
I would behave otherwise.

And if I had a heart
I would enlive and struggle
and throb forward: whatever forward
signified.

But my disabled bowels
lean dull and slender on the country rain.

(Since, come to think of it, I am
the country rain
riding ever forlorn waves
crackling against rooftops of scrap.)

Nah I mean I'm the one you replied to first

This is my latest composition. I call is 'Despacito'. Thoughts are welcome.

Despacito

Like filling me with cum, up the bum,
or chugging it down, down in my tum.
cocks slamming in my face,
piss running down my waist,
slurping up some gobfuls of cum getting
stuck in my eyes,
dribbling down my sticky chin,
i scoop it in my asshole like a greasy shitfilled cumdumster.
it mixes with my poo like a cocktail in my butt;
I’m made of trash you thrashmetal cuck.
fill me daddy, i want it all,
wipe my cock off when your done

Thats what despacito makes me feel like.

I'd attempt to get a scheme going on, you have heart, throb and enlive but don't do the same for eyes.

#edgy#me

Infirm and phlegmy quavers shake the air,
his reddened unshaved jowls slick from croaked rheum.
He hawks - and roughly sponges at the bare
drip by his crooked jaw - crisp yellowed spume.

I think this would be stronger if you stuck to a single part of the body and expanded on that. The bowels makes the most sense because they do throb (peristaltically) and you could form a connection between bowel movement and behaviour.

This needs greater specificity - it doesn't burn but flare or scorch or brand.
Also, the division of "divide" is hackneyed and obvious. If you are going to play a language game why not use synonyms for good and evil and place one inside the other - getting across your meaning in a more novel way

Your use of words doesn't always make sense, I.e. croaked. I feel like you're putting too much effort into word choice when you should be focused more on intent and consistency. And by intent, I mean -Why am I writing this?- Because really, even if this was more acute, I don't think it'd even matter nor be better; if you get what I'm saying.

The goal was a twist on the target of a heroic quatrain.
I don't understand your problem with the word 'croaked' as it accentuates the bird-like aspect of the man - with quavers and jowls.

Unless I'm mistaken, croak either means to die, or the sound a frog makes. Neither correlate with your imagery.

I guess it is intended for a bird sound as well. Makes sense then, just wasn't something I was accustomed to. Always heard caw, or the like; never croak.

this is cool

Smackled like brine shatter th'fuck-spine,
Incense increase jink chink armor plate,
Uneven back, hand in place to crack,
Not much good, that vertebrate, mate.

Me gonn walk leg me crooked,
Tooth hurt less me fook eet,
Need twenny pence for dents,
Me gums bloodin oh wokka wokka

This seems to be collected prattle more than poetry.

I saw that thread and complimented this the first time (albeit in a more drugged up sense now that I recall it). Good to see your shit again user! I'm more of a prose guy but as it relates to the content this is great advice as well.

it takes a mammals enamel

makes a mammal enamoured

and its shambles not chanel

when I'm fucking hammered

Thanks man.

Not bad, a fun little piece. Different in approach, but reminds me of a similar piece I'm working on in pic related.

You ever give poetry a try? Sometimes it really helps get you ahead of the curve for prose in the same way training with wrist and ankle weights makes you faster without them.

I did way before, mostly working on pining down what made a good sonnet regarding form and eventual dives into free verse but I felt that my imagery was way too pedestrian and cliché to keep at it, so I slowly turned to prose where the form was something to mind in a much broader sense.

Nowadays I wouldn't know the first place to pick up poetry again as an exercise since I tend to do more stream of consciousness when I feel that image-heavy drive. Keep thinking I'm no way near good enough seeing the works you guys put up around here too.

Start with free verse and a rhyme scheme. When I'm not sure where I want to go with an idea, I start thinking of random lines or images until I get something with a strong rhythm. Then I ride the wave after that first line. In free verse it's nice because you can get away with repeating that exercise per stanza while retaining only syllable count--though staying close to your first metric rhythm always helps. If you practice listening to music while only keeping time, it's much the same exercise. It's a great starting place in my eyes because of how open ended it is, and once you begin adding constraints such as specific metric feet, rhyme schemes, and/or stanzic formulas, you're going to be very, very precise.

Nothing wrong with prose though. Much more welcoming yet still very difficult to become great with. I'm decent with it, if you're looking for a crit.

Bump

prince hal is
gen'ral grant
of dreaming
potenters

seed not sprung
or straining
out of the
grave earth plot

>He hawks - and roughly sponges at the bare
>drip by his crooked jaw - crisp yellowed spume.

This has a great rhythm.

>shake the air

was the only part I had a real problem with. It doesn't seem to say much. A more specific simile would patch that up and reinforce the previous modifiers in the line. In what way is the air shook?

>Neither correlate with your imagery.

Not the author, but doesn't croak, as in "to die", supplement "infirm"? Doesn't the invocation of froginess supplement the ugliness, sliminess, and jowliness of the character described?

>
bump

It feels like two different poems pasted together. I get the thematic thread of action in the first half providing background for the figure of your loneliness, but in all other ways it's disjointed. The first half has no actors really, and the second is in first person. The first half has sounds and lights, the second half has one half described smell. The enjambment changes as does the metrical flow. I think that you could change the second stanza to musings while at the fair and then show, not tell, your empty feelings.

Reign it in bro. This is diahrretic rhyme and nothing else. Which if that's what you want, then ok. But why not apply yourself and see if you can communicate or give others aesthetic uplift?

Infirm and phlegmy quavers whet the air,
his reddened unshaved jowls slick from croaked rheum.

I agree and think whet is both a stronger verb and accentuates the wetness of the jowls.

The pepperoni was unevenly distributed
so she whipped out her iPhone to measure the crust.

"12.46 inches," she laughed. "He's making pizza chef pay with an iPhone 7:
clearly someone I could never trust."

"But look at the arrangement," I said, "the meat is Ursa Major.
The cheese and the sauce are the dead sea."

And she stayed quiet, but we knew it was true - the man was a visual artist -
but later our tongues were too salty:

hers was too red and republican bloody-
she learned to self-flagellate:
to beg for weird, sexual habits
to cover up the guilt she felt when she judged mediocre chefs
and their smart phones.
she was a good christian girl,
you should have seen how she handled salads.

>If I only had a brain...

Little tomato on the counter, weeping bananas that
fall to the floor and crawl around like roaches,
hiding in the dark, wet places of my home -

A foam has been building, where the banana tear roaches have crusted
over pink and brown, bubbling like caulk in the crevices
the wood cracks, keeping out the winter
and its gotten warm.

Banana roaches, mama misses you - tomato mommy misses you -
she's been weeping more banana babies,
and I tell her every evening
to remain hopeless:

and I've been saving a ton on electricity in the cold months.

Thus, in full:

Infirm and phlegmy quavers whet the air,
his reddened unshaved jowls slick from croaked rheum.
He hawks - and roughly sponges at the bare
drip by his crooked jaw - crisp yellowed spume.

The acrid puke sits on the gaunt old floor,
and keels into the runnels of a crate.
His troubled breath restored, he bulged and swore
and raked the air atop his raw-skinned pate.

There once was a big hairy butcher named Sal
to the neighbors wives he was always a pal
lonely women gagging to meet
with his thick salty meat
many hairy children were born in that locale

Thanks, after this thread, I am probably just scrapping the second stanza and taking it entirely back to the drawing board. I'm not sure about the musings thing, but that is an interesting direction, and something I will probably explore.

i can visualise the images in this poem very well :)

Great! But I'm a bit confused. Maybe I'm used to whet as a term of anticipation. Appetite is whetted toward a future meal; a weapon is whetted toward a future battle. How is the character\s voice prepared toward a future action. I could be wrong. The rest of the piece seemed to give me a sense of an uneven and wobbly sort of vibration in the air directed at the narrator.

I meant it in the sense of the air being excited or moved by his coughs. Also, as I said before, it accentuates the moist nature of the character.
Does that make sense?

I think you guys are both autistic. That makes a lot of sense.

Mushrooms growing on my head.
Growing all over now.

Pick ‘em off and eat ‘em.
Pick ‘em off and toss ‘em.

Mushrooms are poisonous.
Now I’m toxic.

Only in the wet and dark.
Spreading the spores of myself.

Spread to others.
We’re all mushrooms now.

Mush hands.
Room toes.
Living the fungus life
together.

>I think you guys are both autistic.

I like the whet-wetness connection. Where is the other pole of the connection. What exactly is being whetted? I may not be even qualified to offer critique on this board, but I try to be earnest in relaying my impressions.

This reminds of Plath's mushroom poem, is that intentional.

Nope, haven't read much/any of Plath.

Just read it real quick after posting, and it is wonderfully lyrical. I need to get a good poetry book.

i scanned her into the fax machine
watched the bright light shine
a brilliant jpeg
an anime girl
i scanned her into the fax machine

postscript:
the only poetry that will remain is the poetry written on electronic messageboards

damn dude, good job. keep it up

The Phantom, exterior like fish eggs
The interior like suicide wrist red
I can exercise you, this can be your Phys. Ed
Cheat on your man, ma, that's how you get ahizzead
Killer with the beat,I know killers in the street
With the steel that'll make you feel like Chinchilla in the heat

Feel like writing a naive gay poem so here goes

The stars have left their pilgrimage
and fallen from the sky
They've come to court the firmament
in Isabella's eye

And stone, who so long held his peace
has broke his silent vow
how warm his baritone beneath her,
dancing on his brow

could throw in another bit here but i got bored

The first stanza is legitimately beautiful. It reminds me of Stephen's poem in A Portrait.

first time ive got a positive critique

Get "The Norton Anthology of Modernand Contemporary Poetry." It's two volumes, get them both.